


To Search and Find

by EponaVegas



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oneshot, Romance, Sappy, hankcon - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:53:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23870068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EponaVegas/pseuds/EponaVegas
Summary: With the relationship between himself and Hank unclear, Connor searches for answers.Hank knows what Connor is searching for, but he can't answer Connor's questions, either.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 2
Kudos: 38





	To Search and Find

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This will be my very first work posted on AO3, and my first work of writing posted on the internet for quite some time, period. As such, I'm pretty proud of myself for finally being brave enough to put myself out there, haha!  
> Please enjoy, and as always, criticism is welcome.

The television was playing a basketball game with the volume turned down so low that all you could hear were incoherent murmurs and the semblance of cheers from the crowd--not that it mattered. Only one lamp in the corner of the living room was turned on dimly, giving a warm glow to the dark environment that lightly buzzed from the fridge humming.

Connor watched Hank like a hawk—or, as hawk-like as he could while trying not to accidentally disclose his cover. He would scan Hank’s face, watch his reactions as they conversed, track his pulse, R.P.M., body temperature, anything he could observe, he would.

This was all he had been focusing on lately. Observing. Calculating. Trying to piece together small hints and clues that might lead him to the truth. Because, as advanced as his logical, social, and inquisitorial programs and systems were, Connor still could not ascertain answers to the questions that had been eating away at him for what seemed like millennia ago.

_ What am I to you? Who am I to you? _

After pouring through hundreds and thousands of sites online for answers (none of which that helpful), Connor resorted to his own devices. 

Tonight, he crawled up beside Hank on the couch, trying to test, test, and test again where the boundaries were. Carefully calculative as always, but his usually perfect judgment was marred with both uncertainty and fleeting dashes of hope.

Hank, of course, picked up on it instantaneously. Connor wasn’t being as discreet as he thought he was in his “investigations”. Quick, darting glances across the desks at work. Holding eye contact a little too long during conversations. The processing LED that came whenever Hank spoke or moved. 

It was all too clear for Hank. Hank knew what Connor was searching so desperately for. 

But Hank couldn’t answer Connor’s questions, either. 

Not that he didn’t  _ want  _ to, but that it was impossible to without everything he had built crumbling to nothing around him. Whether he answered the questions honestly or whether he bluffed, the world would come crashing down, crushing Hank with the inescapable consequences, no matter how hard he may try to fight them.

Leave it to Hank to fuck things up. His marriage, Cole’s life,  _ his  _ life…

He wouldn’t do it again. He couldn’t. And he couldn’t ruin Connor’s life, either. 

  
  
  
  


As Connor leaned into Hank on the sofa, resting his head on his shoulder gingerly, monitoring Hank’s reactions to see  _ just how far he could possibly push _ , it was clear that some invisible barrier was broken--and it had been broken some time ago. What was left was something so fragile and delicate that a single misstep would shatter the entirety of it, leaving nothing but broken, dangerous shards and fragments of what could have been; reflections of pining desires and the inevitable futility that follows.

Hank realized then that, no matter how well he could attempt at blundering through his relentless tsunami of emotions and—god, just pouring out to Connor how much he cherished him and  _ wished _ they could be something more--

There was so much  _ wrong, _ and so much that could  _ go _ wrong. How much of this was just a charade played by programming and wires? How much of this was just Hank clinging to the illusion of romance? How much explaining would he have to do, not only to others but himself, to justify his selfish desires?

_ How much was Connor even human? _

Already burdened with his own set of questions, Hank was helplessly trapped within the impossible charade of searching and finding, and the results of it he wasn’t even sure he wanted to know.

Hank’s heart hurt more and more with each passing second of  _ this _ . Connor was so close, yet so far, and Hank, one of the most recognized and decorated members of the Detroit police force, was too afraid to change it. He thought bitterly that it was truly and sadly laughable.

He reached up to gently card his fingers through Connor’s hair, giving in to desire _just a little_ because he knew that once he escaped this fantasy, there was no going back. The bridge would be set aflame, and that roaring fire would leave nothing in its wake. 

“Your hands are nice, Lieutenant,” said Connor softly, imploringly, urging him to do more. “You should do this more often.”

Hank’s heart tore in two as he gazed upon Connor in bittersweet adoration. He held his breath, losing himself in Connor’s beautiful face, his freckles, his soft brown eyes, his lips. And Connor was staring at Hank searchingly, trying desperately to find what position he filled in Hank’s life. 

Hank needed to stop before he was in too deep to ever have hopes of crawling out again. It was hard—so hard when everything was almost  _ perfect,  _ but…

“I… need to go to bed. Good night, Connor.”

Connor, taken aback by the sudden change of mood, blinked a few times, his LED circling yellow as he feverishly sought in to interpret the rapidly changing dynamic.

_ Hank Anderson, what did I do wrong?  _

“Sleep well, Hank.”

Without even thinking, Hank leaned in to kiss Connor goodnight.

Their lips never met. 

Hank ripped himself out of his head and grounded himself back to reality. He pushed away and clambered down the hallway like the fucked-up mess he was, praying that he made the right choice.

Just as he was opening his bedroom door, he heard a whisper; broken, torn--floating down the hallway as if carried by a river. There and gone in an instant.

_ “I love you.” _


End file.
